


The Way He Likes Best

by RedEris



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen likes to worship at the shrine of his lover's body, tender and reverent.  Samhal has slightly different ideas.</p>
<p>This is as close as I can get to a direct rewrite of my fic "Mating" in M/M,  written at the suggestion of a friend.  This should in no way be considered canon for Samhal or Little Fox--strictly AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way He Likes Best

Samhal found it difficult at first to teach Cullen what he wanted, to make his love believe him. The man wanted to treat him as precious, to worship at the shrine of his body. He was unsure, new, hesitant. 

When Cullen set the tempo, usually it was slow and tender—often, Samhal rode on top, rising high, back arched, so that his lover could see him. See his face, the tattooed rise of his chest, his bite-reddened lips, him taking in Cullen’s length as he rose and fell. Samhal would bend down to kiss him, slow and hot, open-mouthed and sharing breath. Cullen would whisper to him reverently—I love you, you are so beautiful, I am so lucky, _how am I so lucky?_ Cullen loved to see it in Samhal’s face when he got closer and closer to the end, when he ground down onto him more fiercely, when he rolled his hips eagerly to push Cullen’s cock against that sweet spot inside. He loved to wait ‘til near the end before palming Samhal’s cock, feeling it almost as if it were his own, fingers gliding over the head and pulling breathy moans from his lover. The sound of Samhal’s breath catching and whining in his throat, the sight of his eyes shut and his teeth gritted as he came over Cullen’s hand and clenched around him, was almost always enough to finish Cullen as well. Samhal would collapse onto him, then, and broad fingers would soothe through his hair as they caught their breath, and they would lie together without moving, without parting, until to lie still a second longer would be to fall asleep like that and wake up a sticky mess.

And Samhal loved that. Of course he did. The way the tendons stood out in Cullen’s neck, the harsh lines of his cheek and jaw when the end was near, the whispered praise, his curls all freed and disheveled. Strong hands on Samhal’s hips pulling down, begging for more. But slowly, slowly, he taught Cullen a different way. Slowly, his lover lost the fear of the inexperienced, the dread that he would finish too soon and embarrass himself, the need to always hold back lest he hurt or shock the smaller man. Slowly, he learned that one could be loving without always being gentle, and that Samhal, despite his size, was no more a delicate flower in bed than in any other aspect of an undeniably hard life.

When they do it the way Samhal likes best, it starts with him kneeling between Cullen’s knees, mouth hot and wet, lips straining around his girth. No teasing, no drawing it out—no, that is not the purpose here. He sucks, he gently nips, he bobs, hands moving busily, until Cullen’s hips move on their own—until, ultimately, he is rutting up into Samhal’s mouth and hand, fists tangled in his hair, panting harshly. Until Samhal can do nothing more than concentrate on breathing and his whole world narrows down to the final swelling and tightening of the cock in his mouth before Cullen gasps raggedly and spills down his throat.

But that is only the preparation. Because then it is Samhal’s turn.

Cullen needs time now for what Samhal wants, but it isn’t wasted time. This is the time for Cullen to pull Samhal up, to roll over him, slide his hand down the planes of Samhal’s stomach, along the ridge of muscle over his hip, pausing a moment to cup his balls and drag a calloused thumb up and down the shaft of his cock. This is when he kisses Samhal’s roughly-used mouth and tastes himself there. With one hand he tweaks Samhal’s nipples—not gently, but in quick, sharp tugs and twists. The other hand continues down, coaxing one thigh up and sliding down it until Cullen’s fingers brush lightly against Samhal’s entrance, teasing and circling. Cullen grabs the oil, warming it under his arm as he kisses Samhal deeply, teasing and testing with dry fingertips. Samhal is impatient—he slips out the oil and pours it, and Cullen guides the stream with his hand. He slips a long finger inside, stroking and thrusting, and Samhal’s body welcomes it eagerly. He writhes against Cullen’s hand and moans and hold nothing back, inciting him on, until he can feel fresh stirring against his hip. Then he reaches down—it’s always a tangle of arms and legs and odd angles—and grasps Cullen’s cock, half-hard, to tug and squeeze urgently, demandingly. Sometimes Cullen pulls his hand away, and Samhal whimpers at the loss as Cullen uses the oil-slicked hand to coax himself back to hardness.

When he is ready again—oh, Cullen knows what his lover wants now, he understands this dance now—he kisses him hard and growls, “On your front, man.” Samhal scrambles to obey. Scrambles to arch up and tip his ass into the air, presenting like an animal, pushing an impatient hand down to palm himself. The next step is for Cullen to pin his mate with a heavy hand between his shoulder blades. As Cullen guides himself in, Samhal revels in the thickness of him, the stretch and fullness, and he gasps and arches back into the sensation.

For this, Samhal usually keeps his eyes shut. Cullen wants to see, but Samhal—Samhal wants to feel. To feel the stretch and burn of that glorious cock, the drag of every inch of it inside him. To feel the ridge of the head catching against him as Cullen nearly pulls out and then snaps back in hard. To feel the weight of one hand pressing him into the mattress, the other kneading his hip. He reaches his fingers down and spreads them around his lover’s cock, marveling as it slides into him between them, over and over.

Sometimes—often, if he’s honest with himself—it isn’t even about the ending. It’s about the feeling itself, and the end hardly matters. It’s about being pinned and covered, being totally overwhelmed with sensation, being _taken_. The shifting of the warrior’s powerful thighs to either side of his, the sheer strength of him. It is _mating_ , raw and feral, and he loves it.

Because Cullen knows he wants it—because Samhal has begged for it—he bends over the smaller man, resting his weight on his elbows, and, once, tenderly kisses the nape of Samhal’s neck. And then he bites down hard. Hard enough to mark, hard enough to hold as he pounds into Samhal and jars his body upwards with every thrust. Samhal mewls and twists and pushes back onto him frantically, brings his free hand up to the headboard to brace and give him more leverage. 

Samhal rolls his hips, clenching around Cullen’s cock as hard as he can, each exhale a high whine, and Cullen know what he needs. He shifts his weight slightly higher so that he is driving less forward and more downward, his thrusts shallower, the head of his cock stroking the front of Samhal’s walls over and over. He knows he has the angle right when a new tone enters his lover’s cries, when he begins to move faster and faster between Cullen’s thrusts and his own hand, every new moan pitching upward higher and higher and _higher_ , until at last he breaks and howls. In his throes, his fingers clutch and scratch new furrows into the headboard. Cullen grabs his hair and yanks to the side so that he can see his face—eyes blown wide and then clenched shut again, mouth gaping open—and he rides Samhal through it as he thrashes and comes apart under and around him, each thrust a new spark to the flame until a distant part of Samhal’s mind begins to be genuinely afraid that the next will somehow be too much and he will fly to pieces and never come back. They have danced this dance often enough and long enough that Cullen hears and knows, stilling and nestling deep inside his lover, lowering himself to pepper kisses across trembling, sweat-dewed shoulders, soothing Samhal and smiling gently against his hair.

When Samhal has recovered enough, he pushes back demandingly, insistently, until Cullen follows his lead and they shuffle down the bed together, never parting. In the end he is on hands and knees and Cullen is kneeling behind him. This is permission, Samhal’s invitation for Cullen to satisfy himself and hold nothing back, but it is also perhaps Samhal’s very favorite part. This is the part where strong hands clamp around his hips and he braces against the bed with his forearms as best he can, and Cullen begins to thrust hard, at first slow and measured but with a snap at the end of each stroke that sends him rocking forward, and he cries out for harder, _harder, fuck me, fill me_. He smiles inside when he feels the last thread of Cullen’s control snap. He hears him snarl, just barely, as he begins to drive into his body ruthlessly, so hard that Samhal forgets everything else and can do nothing but wail out his ecstasy and cling to the bed to anchor himself until his lover shouts, just the once, and tumbles over the edge, spurting into him, thrusting erratically, fingers shifting and clutching spasmodically on his hips and waist.

Afterwards, Cullen likes to guide them both down to the bed together, spooning, with his cock still inside. He likes to hold his lover gently and kiss the back of his head, moving lazily inside him just to savor the feeling a little longer, twitching deliberately just to hear Samhal’s breathy moan, feel him clench in response, until at last he softens and slips out. Then he gently cleans the spill of his seed from his lover’s skin as Samhal lays limp and utterly sated, and gathers him into his arms already half asleep, and slips into sleep.

After a session like this, he rarely remembers any dreams, and wakes up still curled securely around his love.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a really interesting exercise. In some way I changed the style of the piece more than I like just by inserting names, but I'm still very glad I did it. I learned from the experience and of course it was a delight to picture them together like this.


End file.
